To its mistresses wish, the blade dances through till she has been pleased, leaving a mess by engraving the scars of death as a mark, Alike a shadow she does not crack, cavorting a masacre of cruelty,
Berserking she follows the orders, shedding blood in fountains of death and misery without chance for this rage to stop without order,
Emotionless, cold, time is for her to stop moving when her ****** devotion consumes her entirely, swaying in the dark, destroying,
Tortured with true or false everyone disappears, time flows again,
A phantom glides over the sea of blood, in a mist, scarlet red,
Observing this would cause a riot of emotions to rage in pure fury,
Her name already burnt away, as a new one was given to her after this rumpus had found its peak, leaving the mistress in bliss, joy,
Watching their attemps to flee as they reach their dying moments,
Until those who get to close have perished, nobody and nothing left,
Cricling karma surely will catch them, after this sacrifice is done,
Warm blood melts the left over snow, laughter echos and reverbrates through the unending seeming night, bells ring, it is only midnight.
In the end her loyalty and efforts, her energy and love for her mistress
Are but a ****** devotion

~ Umi

I'm coaching myself
To cry instead of
Berserking in anger.

It saves the walls;
Our things;
My knuckles;

It makes you
Feel
Bigger.

It gives room for you
To hold something
You need

To
Want to
Hold.

in obscurity, working
     lonely silence lurking
         Orhan Pamuk Turking

and I reading while Trump’s berserking.

One must be patient, he rightly wrote,
    and then in solitude go on working
      
      though behind the rightful time
    chimes of freedom, attention perking

strength to those who wait, and now I wait
                in the bookstore clerking

       anxiety attacks, but the Man in Black
             pursues, prevents berserking
                
                  coincidences call
and names, nearly all like allusions lurking

She makes me lose control I say
cause she's nineteen with baby-fat
her waist just like a willow branch
her curves a tidal wave.



Her voice is sweet and clears her lungs
much like a mad tormented bull
which snaps its yoke and runs amok
berserking through the abattoir.



She makes me lose control I said
and all my cool has gone the way
of broken ice that's chipped and shaved
to sculpt and birth a gleaming swan.



She is to me the essence of
the paints and lights of circus shows
and me the boy who walks the aisles
the man who walks the wire.

So if I were to walk the streets
vain as any wealthy patron
with spectacles perched firmly
in this pauper's jacket-pocket

I would recognize her form, if blind
she, the angel of the storefronts
her silhouette cut razor clean
in contrast to the satin dusk.



And my eyes so cold and jaded
running across her wondrous frame
like Braille beneath blind fingertips
they turn from wolf's to teddy bear's.



She makes me lose control I say
my placid Fonzerelli cool
lay torn and tossed like carrion
which falls from awkward vulture jowls.



But if there was a time at which
Id care for things like poise or style
the time is now, as I'm laid low
grinning like an awestruck child.